Monday, August 09, 2010

Introducing Duke Hardcastle!

Here's a bit of fiction I time, I forget when. One of those things that just pops out, y'know? Go ahead, read it. Short. In English. Easy.

By the way: No, he's NOT Zap Brannigan -- for reasons that WILL become clear.

Captain Duke Hardcastle leaned forward in his command chair and watched space go by on the forward view screen. He rested his chin on his fist, and took a moment to collect his thoughts. His fingertips closed on a toggle switch on the chair's arm, but before he could switch on his log recorder, the bridge door swished open.

Hardcastle recognized First Officer Lana Vavoom's footsteps; the click of her stiletto-heeled boots was most distinctive. (Vavoom's boots were not Starfleet reg, but Captain Hardcastle and his crew enjoyed many privileges as a result of their track record.) He could see her hips swaying in his mind's eye, and he delighted in the image until she came to stop at his elbow.

"Captain," the brunette purred, "I have just finished reviewing the data scanned from the Hesperus." Vavoom leaned forward and placed a clipboard on the arm of the chair, brushing his arm as she withdrew. Hardcastle looked up in time to see her smoldering eyes linger on him with want. He supressed a smile.

"Thank you, Commadeer Vavoom," he said. He took the clipboard and looked it over. His left eyebrow lifted. "Sabotage?"

"So it would seem, Captain." Vavoom cocked her hip in his direction. "I have prepared a detailed breakdown of my assessment. It's in my quarters," she breathed, biting her lip, "if you'd care to -- "

"Excuse me, Captain," said Chief Communications Officer Lieutenant Anjelica Sanchez, turning slightly in her chair and pointing a dangling foot at him, "we're receiving a message from Starfleet."

"On-screen, Lieutenant," he replied. She smiled coyly and winked at him, her hands working the controls.

The stars on the forward view screen snapped away and were replaced by the squint-eyed, chubby face of a middle-aged man with male pattern baldness.

"Captain Hardcastle!" the man fairly squeaked. His eyes roamed around the bridge. "How are...things?"

Hardcastle stood. "Admiral Hutchens!" he said, "Things --" and here he followed the older man's eyes, which rested squarely upon Ensign Svetlana Svobodova (more precisely, on her thighs) "-- are well."
"I'll say," said Hutchens.

"Yes. To what do we owe the honor of your communication, Admiral? Admiral?"

Ensign Svobodova tossed a quick look at her captain and turned to hide her legs under the helm control panel. Only then did Hutchens clear his throat and speak.

"Ah! Yes! Hello, Captain Hardcastle."

"Hello, Admiral." Hardcastle rocked on his heels and placed his hands on his hips, all but glaring at his superior. "How can my ship assist you." He made the statement sound like an order, implying the "hurry up and tell me how" that preceded it.

"Er..." Hutchens hesitated; he squeezed one eye shut, looked askance with the other, then appeared to look at his shoes. "Ah! Captain Hardcastle."

"Just a moment please, Admiral," Hardcastle said. Then, to Lt. Sanchez: "I'll take this in my quarters." He turned to leave the bridge.

"Aye, Captain." Sanchez worked the controls and, under her breath, voiced the thought that every other woman on the bridge clutched with red-hot desire:

'I wish he'd take me in his quarters.'
* * *